


Something Wicked

by orphan_account



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Allusions to Seth/Nikki, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood, Failed Dean/Renee, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tales of faith and falling. Tales of ritual and belief. Tales of friendship, love, and betrayal. But most importantly, tales of magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood & Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: If you follow me on Tumblr, you've probably seen this recently. Decided to just bite the bullet and post the damn thing here!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the spilling of blood and the singe of flame, contracts are made. The descent of Jon Moxley, and the subsequent rise of Dean Ambrose.

He knew he was up shit's creek. His "friends," if you could call them that, ran like bitches the minute shit got tough. He thought he could handle it on his own, fuck them, he's always been alone, he could handle it now. The swimming in his head was not the situation Jon had anticipated. He never let people knock him down like this…but he felt his head hit the pavement, felt the blood drip down his face, and the minute it hit the concrete heated by the summer sun, sizzling, he felt a shift. Something in his vision cleared, something fogged in his brain, and a voice, like razors wrapped in silk, spoke to him.

_Get up Jon._

Who in the fuck…

_Get up, Jon. You have a fight to finish._

Everything was spinning: the world, his head, his stomach. He didn't know how he managed to get his legs to work, but he was suddenly standing, the white of his tanktop slowly turning pink at the edges. He could see his opponent laughing, but he couldn't hear it, he couldn't hear anything except that voice in his head.

_That's it Jon. Are you really going to let them get away? They failed at killing you. They should know better. Never leave a crazy man alive and in pain…It doesn't end well for them. They'll find out, sooner than later… They all laugh, but they will always find out the hard way._

His fist felt like it was weighed down by bricks, heavy to lift, heavy to hit. It would hit true though, and when his opponent was down on the same curb, it wasn't until his boot was resting very gently on the top of his head, and he held a lit cigarette in his hand, that he felt the words spill forth. He ignored the words in his head, his head still buzzing.

"Now listen here."  _Now listen here._  "You and I are about to come to an agreement, yes?"  _You and I are about to come into…an agreement, so to speak._  "You are not going to do anything to fuck with me or mine again, do you fucking get that?"  _You are going to occasionally speak for me and mine, when the time is right._  "Do you know who the fuck I am?"  _Do you know who I am?_

The thug beneath his boot stammered out. "Yeah I know who the fuck you are. Big tough guy Moxley, just some white trash thinking he's tough shit." The boot pressed harder against his head, forcing his teeth together.

"Don't think that just because I didn't ask you to bite the curb that I won't fucking do this. You have no idea who I am, what I've become."  _You have no idea what I will make you become, who I will turn you into._

"But I'll be nice right now."  _But we'll wait on that._

He removes his boot, crouching down next to his target, grabbing him by his hair. "So let's go about this as civil as possible. If you agree, then I won't bash your face off of this curb until it's nothing but blood."  _If you do this for me, if you agree, I will never ask you for blood._  He forces the head to nod, and an amused laugh rings out in his head.

"You are never going to come back around here. Tell your friends the same."  _You will never be the same._

He goes to release his hold on the other man's hair, feeling the fear in him. He brings his head up one more time, and looks him directly in the eye. "Oh, and one more thing…"  _One more thing, Jon…_

" _Don't ever trust a word I say._ "

Fear flashed briefly in the eyes of the other man before his head was quickly, and repeatedly, dashed on the side of the curb. Blood had splattered everywhere, coating Jon's hand, mixing with his own spilled blood. He couldn't hear anything except his own laughter, it sounding distinctly off, as if someone was laughing with him.

He finally dropped his grip on the now bloody mess of what had been the punk brat that tried to act tougher than he really was. He took a final drag of his cigarette, stubbing it out in the puddle of blood. He couldn't see it, nor could he really feel it, but the burn of the ash with that spilled blood, both of his and his victim's, was the only binding this contract needed.

As he made his way back down the alley that seemed to be his only home at this point, he trailed bloody fingers upon the concrete walls, sparking with some new otherworldly static, a signature, a sigil.

_Ah yes. You are mine, Jon Moxley…oh, you are mine._

* * *

 

It was relatively late the evening, but he had literally flipped through every book in his library, tapping his fingers nervously along their spines as he tried to figure out what exactly was gnawing at him so. He could feel something was off, he had been at this for quite some time, and despite having had an unfortunate history of being removed from varying traditions, he was still one of the most powerful magicians he knew of, and that wasn't posturing. Perhaps a little posturing, he admitted.

No, there was some new, wild, untamed energy floating around this city, and he would make sure to grab it before anyone else did; to mold it in his image. He remembered what it was like being new to the fold, and while he stumbled through the varying traditions, the Gardnerian and Alexandrian Wiccas, going more ceremonial with Golden Dawn and Thelema, he inevitably found himself cast out of all, but not without the knowledge. That, that he kept stored away. He knew all the secrets. Secrets that he would like to, in some form, pass down to whoever this new person was.

Perhaps a drink would settle his senses. Perhaps if he were lucky, he'd stumble into this wild energy firsthand.

* * *

The bar wasn't anything to write home about, but he knew that if he went to one of the classier establishments he usually haunted, he'd not risk the chance of running into whomever was putting off these fiery sparks throughout the city. He'd gotten some people who owed him favors to scout the area, seeing what they could pick up. All blood trails led to this neighborhood. He never acted without purpose, not unlike the stuffy, neutered brethren of his former traditions. Magicians in theory, but not truly in practice. It was why he was ousted; he had the balls to do the magic they themselves did not wish to do. Such was the joy of being a villain.

He sat quietly in the back of the bar, incredibly overdressed, sipping slowly at his drink. He watched, letting the energy call out to him. He could feel it nearby, he knew it would be soon. And sure enough, when this lanky street rat stumbles in, parking himself on a bar stool and asking for some cheap beer, it was as if a cool breeze had hit the room. That's him.

He maintained his vigil, placing the drink down, letting the condensation form its rings on the polished wood of the table. Really, it was this young kid? That's who had an energy that he wanted to control, to contort, to conform? Life sure was funny nowadays. When he looked back up, he saw that he had an audience of his own. It appears that this young kid had found him just as interesting. Maybe young, but not dumb. He smirked, impressed at his senses, and mockingly saluted him with two fingers, sipping his drink again.

He quickly downed his glass, leaving some cash for the barkeep, before making his way out of the bar, purposely passing by the target of his interest, making sure to get a reading on his energy. Yes, that was definitely who was keeping him awake at night, and if he was playing his cards right, and he always played his cards right, he'd be cornered shortly. He purposely made a wrong turn into an alley, and before he could make another step, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Perfect.

"Who in the fuck are-"

A snap of fingers, a shifting of positions, and soon it was he who would be asking the questions, the younger man pinned against the wall by nothing but magic.

"I'll be asking the questions here, if you don't mind. But first, let me introduce myself. My name is Sir William Regal, but you may call me William, if you like. The important question, truly…" He stepped closer to the younger man, grabbing hold of his chin and tipping his face up to look in his eyes. "Isn't so much who are you, but rather…what are you?"

"What the fuck do you mean what am I? And why the fuck do you care?" Jon was nervous having this stranger touch him, pinned against a wall, lifting his chin. In fact, it made him really fucking uncomfortable, not just nervous. The other man, this Regal guy, dropped his hand, placing it in his pocket and pulling out a lighter. He snapped his fingers with his other hand, making Jon's right arm free from its constraints.

"Go on. Get yourself a cigarette. I can tell you need it." Jon raised an eyebrow, slowly reaching in his pocket to pull a single cigarette from the box. He placed it gently at his lips, holding his breath as Regal lit the end of the cigarette, doing so with the delicacy as if he were lighting a ritual flame. The acknowledgement of the strange exchange didn't escape Regal's eyes. He smirked, raising an eyebrow, before placing the lighter back in his own pocket.

Regal watched as Jon took in a large drag of the cigarette, his head hitting the brick wall as he held the nicotine in his lungs before exhaling slowly, his face clouded in smoke momentarily. It was almost as if his face changed, but that was simply illusion of smoke, shadow and street light…of course it was. He waited, seeing the head lower itself back, a strange sleepy half-lidded expression hitting his face. "Thanks. So, why the fuck am I pinned against a goddamn wall?"

"Because you intrigue me. And I still don't know your name."

He takes another drag, flicking ash off into the shadows. "Jon Moxley. I'd say pleasure to meet you, but I don't take pleasure out of older gentlemen pinning me in an alley. Not my cup of tea." He laughs to himself. However, his laughter stops, his face turning blank. Regal watches with curiosity, tilting his head slightly as Jon's eyes flutter close.

_Jon, now is not the time to be laughing. Listen to what he has to say._

He tried to fight back in his head, arguing that he really didn't want to, when he was cut off.

_Did I stutter, Jon? Do what I say. I saved your life, but I can gladly drop it off with my daughter. You'll meet her eventually._

For some reason, the thought of meeting a chick scared him, and he knew it was because she was no regular chick.

_Good. Now pay attention to what he has to say._

Regal saw Jon's head slump forward slightly, and then shoot back up, hitting off of the brick. Jon's hand reached the back of his head, wincing out, "fffffUCKING HELL." He rubbed at the back of his head briefly, and then looked back up. "Do you mind letting me go at least? I don't really like staying still. Makes me itchy." Regal nods, snapping his fingers, Jon pushing himself off the wall. He jumped in place a few times, shaking out his limbs, flicking the burned down cigarette towards the shadowed alley once more.

"So, what did you mean by what am I? What do you think I am?"

"You've been a thorn in my side, and the rest of the community, for quite a few weeks now, Jon. It's as if the air has caught on fire, and for some reason, you seem to be the source. So please, let's cut through the pretense. What are you? What do you do?"

Jon brought his head back in confusion. "What community? I'm just some punk kid who gets into some bloody fights, but no one has called crying about missing the shitheads I destroy. So if that's what you meant, then yeah, that's who I am." Regal rolled his eyes, sighing. Maybe he wasn't as smart as he took him for in the bar.

"You just saw me snap my fingers and pin you against the wall and subsequently unpin you without using my hands, don't fuck around with me young man, you know exactly what I'm asking you." Shit, Jon could tell he said the wrong thing. This Regal guy was right though; he'd done some serious…magic? Was that the right term? Did magic really even work? Sounded pretty insane, if you asked him.

_You have a disembodied voice in the back of your head that can control your words, and you're calling this insane?_

Touché.

"Alright, fine, I give. I don't know what…what this is. All I know is I almost died a few weeks back, got my ass jumped by a few punk kids with some lead pipes. I managed to take all but one down, before my head hit the damn curb. Everything started spinning, but something told me to get up, and next thing I know, I'm just saying all of this shit and then I beat that fucker's head into the fucking curb, and I've been feeling goddamn weird since. So I don't know what the fuck you think that means, but if you can give me an answer, that'd be fucking great, man."

Regal nodded, keeping his mirth to himself. He really didn't know. That was fantastic. "Well, Jon. I can explain to you, to some extent, what you are, but the rest you'll have to figure out on your own, I'm afraid. However, that conversation isn't for public eyes and ears. You look like you need dinner and a shower. Come back to my place, and we can chat some more."

Jon stood there, thinking to himself. If he went back to this guy's place, he could probably get an answer to whatever the fuck was going on in his head, why it throbbed at random, why it rang, why he got that fucking voice in his head, why he felt like his blood was fucking fire. He'd get a shower, and food,  _real food Jon_. But at the same time, who knows what this guy would do to him once the door was shut.

_What did I tell you Jon. Listen to him. Trust him. Trust me._

"Well?"

Jon shrugged, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "Fuck it. Lead the way."

* * *

 

"Surely you realize how special you are, yes?" Regal had grown quite exasperated with Jon, after listening to his story in the kitchen of his home. He was pacing back and forth, simultaneously fascinated by Jon's tale of blood and ash, how he had felt like there was fire in blood, and infuriated by Jon's shrugging off of the severity of his situation. People bled, wept, lost their families in the pursuit of power like this. Yet here was this dirty hood rat, brushing it off like it was some mere party trick.

"Special isn't the word most people would use for me, but I'll take it. Mind if I…?" Jon looked up from the open fridge door; mouth full, a chunk missing from a slice of leftover pizza. He held up a beer bottle, and Regal sighed, waving him on. He watched with amusement as Jon made quick work of swallowing his food, popping open the beer, and taking a swig, before promptly running over to the sink and spitting it out.

"What the fuck IS THIS?" He stares down at the label, squinting his eyes.

"Shy…Schwy…Shysten…WHAT IS THIS GERMAN HORSE-PISS." He makes an exaggerated show of sticking his tongue out in disgust. Regal sighs, shaking his head, taking it all in. He realized that despite his abilities and his bravado, Jon is just a kid, at least in comparison to him. He was ignorant, insufferable, immature, and thriving off of some stereotypical angst that he'd eventually pry out of him, but when push came to shove, this kid was green as hell, and needed guidance.

Smiling, he answers. "Scheinstengauer. I personally feel that it's one of the best, if under-celebrated Teutonic porters." He rolls his eyes, grabbing the bottle from Jon's hand, placing it down on the table.

"That ain't a real fucking beer." Jon points at the bottle of what he had called German horse-piss, mouthing the name as if his lips couldn't form the word correctly.

"Clearly it is, since you just drank some." Regal smirked, watching Jon's face twist up in disgust.

"I've never heard of it and it's disgusting, so it's not a real beer."

"I'm friends with a brewer, who makes it for me, which is why you've personally never heard of it." Jon raised an eyebrow. Who was this guy that he was friends with people that would make beer for him?

"Let me guess, you prefer something more…"

"Cheap." "American."

There was something refreshing and rather endearing about the very common tastes Jon had. While Regal was a man of class and decorum, it had become rather tiring for him being around the snobbish elitism of those he once considered brothers and sisters. Pity that they weren't here to witness the enigma in front of him named Jon Moxley; a man only by definition and age, immature to say the least, but who had a magical gift unlike any other he had seen…except for his own. Knowing his former brethren, they'd see his rough-and-tumble exterior as an aesthetic, and consider it some post-modern form of irony. How absolutely pretentious of them.

But there was some sick sort of humor to it all. This street rat, possessing the raw power that they could only philosophize about…and it was all his to mold to perfection.

"Fine, yes, there's Yuengling in there."

Jon's face lit up, far too excited about beer, but Regal ticked it off in his head to the concept of "free beer." He saw the way that he'd nearly dove towards the fridge when he told Jon to make himself at home. Clearly, with how lanky this kid was, he must not get regular meals.

Jon reached into the back of the fridge, but before his hand can wrap around the neck of the bottle, he hears that voice in his head again.

_Mead is much better, you realize._

He jumped, hitting his head on the lip of the fridge, wincing. He muttered to himself, "fucking mead…"

This didn't escape Regal's notice. "Hmm?"

Jon laughed nervously, closing the door behind him, holding the bottle to his head. "Uh…they still make mead, right? I've heard it's good…wanted to try some…didn't know if you knew anyone who made that, since you have friends that make you booze."

Regal ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, noting to himself to keep an eye on Jon. This was the second time that he'd sort of lulled out, muttering words… this was definitely something to invest interest in. He'd have to keep a close eye on him, to make sure if his hunches were correct.

"Well, I'll see who he knows, and we'll get some mead for you."

Jon, who had almost drained his beer by this point, coughed on a hard swallow. "Why the hell would you do that?"

Regal shrugged. "Because. You're staying here now. It's very clear by the state you're in that you're in no state at all to be refusing this offer. And before you think anything vile of me, know that I show interest in you because you remind me of someone, someone who with the right guidance would have had the world at his feet. Think of it as righting a grave injustice."

Jon put the empty bottle on the counter and leaned back against the counter, thinking. This sounded real sketchy… come on, being pinned in an alley, being told to come into this stranger's home, fed alcohol, and then told to stay there. Actually, it sounded pretty fucking sketchy, this was some after school special, "stranger danger" shit, if you asked him…

_Jon. Trust him._

He wanted to ask why should he trust…whoever it is that's in his head, but he couldn't stand the look of Regal studying him like he's a damn zoo exhibit. So he thought really hard about it instead.

_If you can't trust me, at least trust him. He'll teach you things, important things, things that will save your life. I wouldn't lie about that._

Jon looked up, that stupid, smugly amused face on Regal again. Ugh.

"Fine. Fuck it. I'll stay here, it'll be nice to not be slumming it for once. And if it helps you with this weird fucking obsession, then whatever, I guess, that's on you. Who was he, by the way. A son? A brother? Gay lover?" Jon reached into the pocket of his jacket, feeling the craving for nicotine hit the back of his mind.

Regal nodded at the door telling Jon it was ok to go out for a smoke. "No, Jon. It was me."

* * *

 

A raspy voice, still cracking with youth, uttered words slowly, holding the tiny book in front of his face.

"'The Scourge, the Dagger, and the Chain, represent the three alchemical principles of Sulphur, Mercury, and Salt. These are not the substances which we now call by these names; they represent "principles," whose operations chemists have found more convenient to explain in other ways. But Sulphur represents the energy of things, Mercury their fluidity, Salt their fixity. They are analogous to Fire, Air and Water; but they mean rather more, for they represent something deeper and subtler, and yet more truly active.' Yadda yadda yadda, what the fuck bullshit is this that you're making me read?"

Regal huffed, rolling his eyes, before pushing himself up from the arm chair.

"This bullshit, as you call it, is Aleister Crowley's 'Book 4' and it explains precisely what you have going on around you."

Jon looked down at the book, shrugging, a look of disbelief on his face when he looked back up. "I highly doubt that. Like, why do I need another crusty old British dude to tell me what the fuck is going on with me, don't I have enough of that shit with you?" Jon smirked up at him, making sure Regal knew it was a joke.

It had been weeks since Jon had started living under Regal's roof, and while they had made surprising progress in his magical skills, it was the practical skills of daily living that they had fallen behind in. His energy and water bills had gone through the roof, what with Jon's proclivity for taking long, hot showers, and watching ridiculous amounts of television. His grocery bill was mind-boggling. It was almost as if the brat hadn't eaten a good meal in a while.

He supposed, looking at him and the manner in which he had been found, that may have been true.

"Will you just read on. Here, you can skip these next two paragraphs, that's unnecessary to your lesson, as you're not really going into Thelema. There's just a few things I think are very relevant to your existence."

Jon groaned in exasperation, before looking back at the bottom of the page. He mumbled the words to himself, hating that he felt like a fourth grader reading out loud.

"'Instead of condemning the three qualities outright, we should consider them as parts of a sacrament. This particular aspect of the Scourge, the Dagger, and the Chain, suggests the sacrament of penance… The Scourge is Sulphur: its application excites our sluggish natures; and it may further be used as an instrument of correction, to castigate rebellious volitions...'"

Jon paused, blinking at the page, before flipping to the next one, as if something clicked in his brain. He cracked a knuckle absently, as if this required his fists to be prepared.

"'The Dagger is Mercury: it is used to calm too great heat, by the letting of blood; and it is this weapon which is plunged into the side or heart of the Magician to fill the Holy Cup. Those faculties which come between the appetites and the reason are thus dealt with.

"'The Chain is Salt: it serves to bind the wandering thoughts; and for this reason is placed about the neck of the Magician… These instruments also remind us of pain, death, and bondage.'"

Jon looked up, confusion on his face, flinching when Regal took the book out of his hand, closing it.

"So... what was that about?"

"It's how you live, Jon. Think about it. The chain around your neck. That switchblade I see you playing with. Your fists. You don't think those three things have defined who you are?" Regal stood there, arms crossed, holding the book close to his heart, refusing to let any more of its secrets fall into Jon's grasp. Sure, he was teaching him, but he also knew a darker truth to this: if he taught Jon everything he knew, he'd surely perish at his hands. That's why he was so intrigued by Jon's powers. He saw a younger version of himself in Jon, a boy whose only path seemed to be that of the villain, and yet some flame of determination and stubbornness prevented him from traipsing too deep within the shadows. And yet, if given the right opportunity, and the right powers, Regal saw only a vision of himself on the ground, blood spilling from his ears, Jon standing above him, laughing, smiling.

The student destroying the teacher.

"Yeah, uh, I guess you could say that. You ok up there, Will?"

Regal blinked, returning to the present moment, smiling at how this one moment Jon had called him by his first name, and not by his last. Ironic, given what he was about to do.

"Yes, more than ok. I want to show you something, Jon." He turned, placing the book on his desk, walking behind it, unlocking a drawer. He rifled around it briefly, before picking up the present he had.

"Jon, I think you and I both know that our time here, with me educating you, has come to an end. I've taught you everything you need to know."

Jon, who had stood up in the meanwhile, sputtered, afraid of being thrown back to the streets. "No no no, the fuck I am, you've taught me shit, weren't you gonna teach me some other shit?"

"I've taught you sigils, I've taught you wards, I've taught you anointing candles and blades, I've taught you psychic self defense, hell I even attempted to teach you tarot which, bless you, you tried desperately to learn, but divination is not a skill for all. There is nothing more that I can bestow upon you. The rest you will have to learn on your own, I'm afraid, dear boy."

Jon stood solid, unflinching, fighting desperately against a trembling of his lip, or the tears that threatened to appear in his eyes. This was the first person in his life to truly care about him, to teach him what was necessary, and that voice in his head had told him to trust him. So he had. And now he was throwing him out, back into the gutter.

"Don't look at me like that, Jon. This is for your own betterment. I'm just a washed up relic of a magician, whose power is fleeting, lost beneath philosophy and age. You, however, can write your own fate, and right the wrongs of this world. I don't intend on leaving you starving and broke, you know. But this part of your story is your journey now, and I cannot play the Virgil to your Dante anymore. Trust me on this."

Regal walked over, placing within Jon's hands cold metal. Jon looked down to see brass knuckles, ones that had obviously seen use in their day.

"They were mine when I was younger. Think of it as a new Scourge. I've given you knowledge, I've given you a weapon, and you'll be walking out of this house with the clothes I've bought you, and a check for an undisclosed amount of money to take care of your necessities on your travel. However, this last gift… this one is intangible."

Jon, who still stayed unmoving, jerked slightly when Regal grabbed his face. Blue eyes met blue, and while one showed fear, the others rang with pride, with joy, and with an undercurrent of malicious intent.

"My final gift to you, Jon Moxley, is freedom from your former life. I will take it upon myself to erase that name and your wrongdoings from this city, and allow for you to start a new chapter, and a new life. I take your name and your burdens from you, and leave you a blank slate, one that is full of the knowledge of this world, both mundane and magical. I allow you to choose a name of your own, one you will build a reputation upon, one without the negativity of family or foe. Choose the name, and it will be done."

Jon stood there, staring intently into Regal's eyes, and knew this to be true. The voice in his head, the one that had stayed silent, except for a silent introduction, spoke up.

" _Dean Ambrose_."

Regal nodded, moving away from Jon - no, Dean, and grabbed a piece of paper, with a pin. "Prick your finger, and write it out."

"What?!" Dean leaned back, unsure of what was being done.

_Trust him, Dean._

"Trust me, Dean."

Dean nodded, grabbing the pin in his left hand, pricking his right index finger, watching the blood well up.

"Now, write the name."

Dean nodded blankly, leaning over the desk, slowly spelling out the name, with shaking hands and smears of blood. When finally the words 'DEAN AMBROSE' were written in blood, Regal nodded, taking the paper.

He looked at Dean, and uttered five words.

"So it shall be written."

He then balled the paper up in his hand, and tossed it into the lit fireplace, not watching, but smiling as he heard the paper start to burn, feeling the air warp around him.

"So it shall be done."


	2. Lux Et Tenebris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meditation on betrayal, temptation, protection, and the not-so-secret disintegration of Seth Rollins.

He could see the corruption before he could feel it.

Everything was always blatantly obvious for him; Seth Rollins was not one for poetic symbolism, he preferred things to be so clear that he could analyze them down to blueprints, to find the faults in their construction. He wanted to see the mechanisms of the mind, to see the weakness in bone, to be able to find that one fracture in their persona that he could pry open to his advantage. In another life, he’d use his kind heart and His guidance, but, well, another life, another time.

In most cultures, a pomegranate is seen as a fruit of temptation, going back to the story of Haides and Persephone, or even Adam and Eve, if you take into consideration etymology and the fact that pomegranates are everywhere in Biblical texts.

In Armenia, a pomegranate is seen as a blessing, a protector from the Evil Eye.

And while Seth Rollins didn’t know his biological father, he knew his heritage, and he knew that sometimes, taking the fruit of temptation is the best protection against the evil eye of one Dean Ambrose.

He acknowledged the irony of his life, and how someone who once dealt with saints, candles, iconography… was now eating pomegranate seeds and watching the slow disintegration of the blond in his hair, each motion he made, each plotting of schemes to move forward and upward, another strand would fizzle away, as if the flames of Hell itself took it in recompense.

He knew you weren’t really supposed to have favorite saints, but he always admired Michael the Archangel. Strong, omnipresent, conquering Satan, a bastion of justice. If he had to stylize himself after anyone, he’d say that Michael was a good start. The strength of Michael and the compassion of Christ. This was what he had always wanted, but he soon found that it only allowed him to turn a blind eye to those who would walk over him, who would attempt to bury him, who would doubt his strength due to his kind heart.

So he made a move, in conquering his own anxieties and his oppressors, and he felt like he had found true strength, and belief in himself as an individual, and not just a pawn.

He supposed out of all the apostles, the one he was identified the most with now was Judas.

This thought should have troubled him, honestly, if his posturing between two forms of Christianity, Orthodoxy and Catholicism, had taught him anything, it’s that no one should be identified with the Betrayer.

However, with the life choices Seth had taken, with the eating of the proverbial pomegranate, he not only accepted damnation, he also obtained protection.

He wasn’t quite sure which was the lesser of two evils.

He sighed, looking down to his hand, stained red with the juice of the seeds. They seemed like tiny little garnets in his hand, and in some of that weird mysticism that he had picked up from his travels and from what little he could understand of Khali, garnets equaled the root, which equaled grounding.

The last thing Seth needed were roots to strangle him, to lock his ankles to a prison. He supposed it was too late, the roots were of his own making, the moment he ate the proverbial fruit.

He wiped at his mouth, his lips stained more. It was sickeningly sweet, sticky against his skin. He pulled lightly at one of the strands of blond in his hair, curling loosely. It fell apart in his hand, brittle, like dust or ash.

He let it fall into the white porcelain of the sink, before finally rinsing off, letting the red wash away from his hands, from his mouth. It was time to get ready, and he had to make sure he had no taint about him, ignoring the blackened spot growing on his heart.

He silently went about his business, pulling his hair back, trying desperately to tame the small tufts of blond that wanted to break free of the hold. He ignored their defiance, and continued his ritual, donning his requisite all black. With each clean line, with each brush of the expensive fabric against his skin, the screaming in the back of his head became more and more muffled.

He left the bathroom, holding the bowl that carried the seeds within it gingerly, not wanting to risk getting the juice on his suit. He placed it, almost reverently, on a table.

Two taper candles were lit. A white, and a black. The white was burned down significantly more than the black. He, maintaining his silence, snuffed them out, the momentary burn of the flame dulled by the calluses on his fingers. He looked at the time on his watch, and moved towards the door, leaving only the smoke of the wick and the bowl of pomegranate seeds upon the table.

The ashes of what was once his hair still floating, defiantly, in the sink, a stark reminder of what he had to burn away.

 

 


	3. Coffin Nails & Rosemary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Roman have very different methods of protection, but they balance each other. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this one, and shout-outs go to Tumblr users driedlavender and breelandwalker for helping with certain details in this, and helping me figure out dialogue.
> 
> If you haven't figured out the voice in Dean's head yet, here's another blatant hint for you.

As Dean inhaled the last drag of his cigarette, watching the sun set beneath the trees outside of the motel, he looked down briefly at his hands, covered in scrapes and cuts and nicks. His arm looked no better, nearly riddled with thin white lines, or thicker ridges where skin had to be sewn shut hastily, using tactics he had learned in dingy apartments under the old name of Jon Moxley: peroxide and fishing wire and overwhelming patience.

They were healing better now that he had Roman to give him the proper treatment. While Dean was literal fire and blood and brimstone, Roman was cool, healing waters; the dark, nurturing soil; Roman was bright, white light, and Dean was the bloodied shadow.

They balanced each other well, especially moreso since Seth had left.

_Don't think about that, not with what you've got to do._

Dean nodded, dropping the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot. It had been months since it had happened, and He was right. Dean had other things to worry about. Like figure out whatever lesson it was that he was supposed to be taught, and to make sure that the room, for the night, was safe. Travelling in this field beforehand was always rough, with no guaranteed lodging or food for the night, but now knowing that magic, since that  _was_  what this all was, was involved… the target on his back had grown a bit larger, and seemed to permeate past his leather jacket now.

He walked inside, fidgeting with the strings that closed the protection bag that Roman had made him. He didn't think he needed it, not really, but Roman had insisted, saying that he had to get materials he  _doesn't use_  for this one, specifically for Dean, and he'd better take it. When he had asked what was inside, Roman shrugged. "You look inside, you gotta breathe into it anyway so it recognizes you."

Which seemed odd for silly little folk magic that he didn't particularly believe in, but what was really the measuring stick for this shit anyway, right?

He had peeked inside, and found four  _decidedly bizarre_  things in there, but, looking back on it, made a lot of sense: an equilateral cross made of coffin nails, tied with red string; a clump of grey wolf fur; a tumbled onyx; and a chunk of dragon's blood resin. All shoved into a tiny black cloth bag.

"Uce, you shouldn't have."

"Yeah. You're right. I shouldn't have. Coffin nails, dude.  _Coffin nails_."

Dean had just smiled, and made sure to breathe into the bag, being told in his mind to do it another two times.  _Nine would be a bit much, so three works. Three times three, and all that._

As he reached the door for their room, he heard murmuring, repetitive murmuring… oh, not again.

Dean opened the door, and saw Roman standing there, in a white tshirt and pale khaki shorts, barefoot, holding a bundle of herbs in his hand, waving it around the room, letting the smoke fill the area.

He took a good sniff at the air. Rosemary, an obvious choice for Roman… cedar… and sandalwood. No surprise, really, this was a go-to for him. Almost as dependable as his little obsession with basil ("It's a multipurpose herb, Dean!")

"Dude, is this really necessary?"

"...those who came before, to keep all evil from my door… it's necessary, Dean, now shut up."

"Yeah, I get the smoke part, but is the chanting necessary, they're gonna think we're some weirdos or whatever…"

"...threshold seal, by the power that I wield… the chanting is absolutely necessary, shut UP."

Dean nodded, rolling his eyes while he let Roman continue with his smoke cleansing ritual. He had an easier method of protecting a room, but it always made Roman flinch. So, of course he was going to do it. Quickly pulling out his pocket knife, he jabbed at the pad of his middle finger, and when he saw enough blood had welled up, quickly went to the door frame.

As he drew the binding rune, two straight lines down, one longer than the either, before another two parallel lines going down towards the right between the two, he muttered to himself, "storm…"  _Hagalaz_. He made a small triangle off of the second line, so it made almost like a fin out of it. "Thorn…"  _Thurisaz_. He drew the final line from the triangle, making it appear like an R. "Travel."  _Raido_. He nodded to himself, proud of his work, and the voice in the back of his head seemed rather proud as well.

"Ward's up, you can stop with the smoke now."

"...by rising moon and setting sun, as I will it, it is done… DEAN WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT BLEEDING EVERYWHERE."

Dean shrugged, closing the pocket knife, sticking his finger in his mouth before popping it back out, making sure to emphasize the message in it.

"It's more effective, and to the point. You know it'll keep out the nasties."

"Yeah, that's what the smoke and-"

Dean closed his eyes, hearing a crunch under his boots, looking down to see a line of sea salt at the threshold. "Fucking really?"

"Yeah, fucking really. Sea salt keeps pretty much everything out. Well, minus a thing or two."

"Haha, yeah, fuck you too. You can't get rid of this one either, He's stuck with me." Dean tapped at his head, denoting the voice that would show up when it was necessary. Dean knew the name, but if he said the name out loud, he'd have no idea what he'd be opening himself up to, so it was safer to just avoid it altogether.

"Ugh, just get inside and lemme take a look at the rest of your cuts."

"Honestly, Ro, this one is fine, it's just a poke."

"I don't care, get your ass inside."

Dean stepped over the salt line, shutting the door behind him.

"You better not be putting any more basil on my damn cuts, I'm starting to feel like a damn plate of pasta…"


	4. Tricks & Tuberoses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bones are sprouting like flowers, and Dean & Renee are terrible for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm warning you all now: I am not engaging in discussion about this ship. This dynamic works for reasons that permeate throughout this entire AU, and that's all you need to know.
> 
> If you read "Trick" when it was still up, this is a rework of that, now with plot interspersed.

Renee had been having a pleasant dream, about what, she hadn't been sure, because she was woken from it abruptly when Summer Rae had thrown the door wide open, dropping her purse on the floor.

"So, you raised the fucking dead again."

Renee had only responded by opening an eye, seeing a dirt covered animal skull sitting on her side table, before groaning and hiding her face in the pillow.

"No no no, this is good, you're using your powers, this is good." Summer dragged a chair over, sitting down. "He's good for more than just a good lay then."

* * *

_She had known that falling asleep next to him was a bad life choice; waking up to feeling him grinding against her ass was probably a worse one. She wanted so desperately to tear herself away, she knew this wasn't going to do anything but ensnare her further into his trap, but feeling him breathing hot and heavy into her ear, gripping tightly onto her hipbone, she couldn't help but fall back towards it._

_Oh god she knew this was terrible. This was stupid. This was fucking addicting._

_He had pulled her onto her back, quickly crawling on top of her, staring at her, eyes wild and shining. His hair was strewn wildly, sweaty from sleep, falling into his eyes. His chest was heaving, he was breathing so hard, and he didn't say a word, he didn't have to, his eyes said it all. He was asking, no, begging for permission, to just rip into her and find comfort and release._

_Sure, she had seen Dean unhinged before, when the sparks didn't shoot off to the exact neuron they should have, when his eyes glazed over a different way than she recalled. This was one of those times, she knew what he needed, to fuck it out of his system before he did something real stupid to get rid of it. Seeing him like this always made some weird sort of fire burn in her stomach, whether in anger or fear or arousal, she hadn't quite figured it out, and she wasn't really sure she wanted that definition. She just knew he was staring at her, finding any way to pull that answer out for the question he never verbalized._

_All she had to do was place her hand on his neck, and that was the only answer he needed. He grabbed the back of her head and pulled her up into a kiss that was desperate, sucking and biting at her bottom lip. It made her gasp in slight pain, giving him enough room to kiss even deeper, almost as if he were trying to suck the air out of her lungs. She still had her hand on his neck, digging her nails in slightly, scraping them down. He growled into her mouth, grabbing her wrist and slamming it above her head, holding tightly as he moved his mouth to her neck._

_She swallowed and opened her mouth, possibly to moan, she wasn't even sure at this point what exactly it was that she wanted, but what she did know was that she wanted him to touch her. It was that addiction, sparking back up again in the back of her brain. She always fell for his tricks, that gentle cuddle turning into the lascivious trailing of fingers down; an innocent kiss turning heated… he always found some way to draw it out of her._

* * *

He stood in line at the coffee shop, fiddling with the bag that Roman had given him a week prior, right after Seth had left, as a means of protection. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the fabric, feeling the shape of the coffin nail cross within it, padded by the wolf fur.

Why wolf?

_Do you really need to ask me that?_

Dean shrugged, shoving it back into his pocket, the tips of his fingers brushing over the flower bulb he had sitting in his pocket. He had originally said he was going to give it to Roman, but after being shown what it would look like when it was fully grown… Dean had decided to keep it for himself.

A pearl tuberose.

He moved with the line, not realizing there was a shorter woman standing next to him, tapping on his shoulder, a look of concern on her face.

"Excuse me? Uhm, hello, hi, sorry, I hate to approach you like this, but uhm. I can't help but share something with you."

* * *

_He had let go of her wrist and sat up, moving out of the way for her to quickly slip her panties off, giving him enough time to get rid of his own clothes. But soon, he was back on top of her, pulling her legs around his waist. He grabbed one of her hands, threading his fingers between hers, holding it down on the bed above her head, looking into her eyes before moving his head back down to her neck, kissing right where he had left the mark, his thrusts slow and long._

_His gentleness threw her for a loop, she had anticipated the angry, fast desperation that usually came with that look in his eyes he had, but then his hips snapped into hers, and the moan of "fuck" that came tumbling from her lips made him laugh darkly into her neck._

_He continued with the slow pace he'd set, not rushing towards completion any time soon, dragging out those breathy moans and sighs from her. It was the only thing that could muffle the screaming and buzzing in his head, messages he was blatantly ignoring, warnings he did not wish to heed. As he kept up with that slow rhythm, thrusting into her hard and deep, hearing it knock the breath out of her had made him start to tremble a bit on his own, knowing that her falling apart beneath him was putting him back together, even momentarily._

_He grabbed her face with his other hand, kissing her just as he thrust into her even harder than before, laughing against her lips when she whispered out "oh god…"_

_"He has nothing to do with this."_

* * *

Dean grabbed his coffee, walking over towards where he could grab a stirrer, as this woman, who had introduced herself as Natalya, spoke.

"I'm sure you're going to think this is weird, or doesn't make sense, but uhm. I'm a medium and an empath."

"Natalya-"

"Please, call me Nattie."

"Ok, Nattie. Trust me. That is not the weirdest thing I have been witness to in my life. So go on, shoot."

"Alright, well. I keep seeing a skull when I see you. Not, like, death, or anything, but. A skull. A skull with succulents for eyes, and rose petals in its mouth, and a crown of tuberoses."

Dean nearly choked on his coffee. "That's…"

"I'm speaking this from my heart into yours. I don't know why I'm being told to tell you this message, but it's nearly bursting from me to you, like, in some strangely wonderful golden light. Cut your losses. Cut your ties. You two will bring each other nothing but pain and hardship. Your lessons have both been taught and learned, but move forward from each other in opposite directions. You will only hold each other back."

He stared blankly at her, her expression one of heartfelt concern. "I… I'll keep that in mind. Thank you Nattie."

"No problem. Please, let me know if you need any assistance. I doubt you will, not with the energy I can feel off of you, you've got a working phone of your own, but… something was telling me that you needed it from an outside source. But, here. Here's my card, please don't hesitate to call me."

Dean takes the card, looking down at the pale pink cardstock in his hand. It read, Natalya Neidhart-Kidd. Empath and Medium, in an embossed black font. He smiles at her, hoping she'll forget this ever happened, when suddenly an exasperated gentleman walks up behind Natalya, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, goddamnit Nattie, not again. I am so sorry about my wife, she has a tendency to just come up to people and start rambling…"

* * *

_The static was starting to form in the back of his head, and he knew he needed to go faster, despite him loving the feel of dragging this out slowly. If he drew this out too long, it wouldn't work, it would only backfire, he needed some semblance of violent shifting in his brain in order to keep it quiet for just a little bit longer. She was the only one who could keep it absolutely quiet, no one else could; no one else could ever make it stay silent as long as she could._

_She could feel the energy in him shift, and he nearly bent her in half with how he had switched the position, allowing him to go deeper. He was fucking into her roughly now, fast and desperate, letting out little grunts of his own as he rushed towards the orgasm he needed to make everything silent. He hated that it would spring up on him like this, trailing up his spine, niggling at the back of his brain, telling him he needed this, or else he'd traipse back into other addictions to keep it quiet._

_Because gods forbid he ever acknowledged the voice properly. He'd rather try and smother it._

_She could feel the building pressure, it strangling her, the loss of air to her brain a high no other drug could ever give her, and she screamed out his name, her vision nothing but bright splashes of color, eyes slightly rolling backwards from the overwhelming sensation._

_Feeling her fall apart beneath him, tightening around him, screaming out his name…he swore the voice in the back of his head menacingly whispered out the word "enough…" before he slammed into her hard one final time, groaning out his own release, tightening his grip on her hand. All he could hear was a buzzing silence; his vision blurred and grey, everything feeling liquid around him. He slowly pulled out, rolling over onto his back, still not really aware of his surroundings._

_She let her legs fall to the bed, splayed out however they decided to land. She knew she should probably clean herself up, she could already feel some of his cum leaking out, but she still had colors splashing in her brain, feeling out of her body._

_A high they both could share._

_She rolled over, kissing him lightly on the lips, her hand resting on his cheek, just needing to touch him. It sent sparks down her fingers and he could feel that electricity. They were both exhausted, they couldn't do another round this quickly, but that was all a part of the trick…they always hungered, they always thirsted, and they'd always fall into each other's traps, every time. She had fallen asleep against him, as he stroked at her hair._

_She had woken up alone, disheveled, staring at a dirt covered skull._

* * *

"You ok Renee?"

"Yeah… yeah, was just thinking, that's all."

"Jesus, he's really got you all fucked up, huh?"

"You could say that."

"Well, don't try and make it all light and fluffy. Because whatever the hell is going on with you two, you're making bones show up, and that's fantastic. What's not fantastic is that it's all in my garden, so as recompense, I'm using your garden for my herbs. Sorry about your rosemary. It's wormwood now."

Renee shrugged, brain still blurred in a muddle of colors and sounds, and Summer rolled her eyes, sighing loudly.

"Renee. Look at me. I'm telling you as someone who has been down this road: do not read any more into whatever the fuck it is you two have going on. He's good at what he does, and yeah his cock might be out of this world, if it's got you literally bringing up bones, but you are not some hippie-dippie white light witch, love has nothing to do with this. We're sisters. We're grey witches. And, apparently, you have a knack with the dead, even if you'd rather save a dying rosebush than your own ass. Take the magic and run, girl. Take the magic and run."

She nodded at Summer, who got up from the chair, grabbing her purse and leaving the room, the dirt covered skull still sitting on the table.

* * *

Dean buried the bulb in a graveyard he passed on his way back to the motel he and Roman were meeting up at. He didn't know the person buried at that specific lot, but he figured he should pass the beauty on to someone else, if he couldn't hold onto it.

Renee sat looking at the skull, flicking her finger at it, watching a delicate circlet of tuberoses grow around it.


	5. Major & Minor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every fool has their own journey. But Nikki Bella will not be helping Seth Rollins down his, thank you very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, so like. I don't exactly ship Neth Bellins, but god it's a fun dynamic to write, let me tell you what.

It had been a slow day for both Nikki and Brie, their customers having been few and far between. They didn't keep particular clientele personally, rather, they allowed them to go through Eva Marie, who would simply hold out two decks to the querent. Depending on what deck called out to them, they were led to either Nikki or Brie, and for the most part, there was a good reason for that.

See, the thing about tarot cards, is that all decks, generally speaking, will give someone the same message. However, some people need the blows to be softened a bit, which is why Brie tended to go with the lighter deck than Nikki. Neither of them had any qualms about getting to the point, just… one deck is significantly  _nicer_  about it than the other.

Nikki liked the harsher one for that very reason. Rip the bandage off, let the pain subside quicker.

Eva Marie was nearly asleep at the counter, flipping idly through apps on her phone, when she heard the faint jingle of the bells above the door. She looked up, seeing the form of Seth Rollins standing there, arms crossed, a look of irritation on his face as he looked around.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, is Nikki here?"

"Do you got an appointment?" Eva sat up, annoyance in her voice at Seth's attitude.

Seth could have spit nails. Appointment? Since when did they require appointments?

"Do I… listen, just tell Nikki I'm here and I need a reading."

"It doesn't work like that-"

The sound of heels against tile interrupted both of their thoughts, as Nikki Bella stood there, leaning against the wall.

"Well, well, well… if it isn't Mr. Seth Rollins. To what am I owed the pleasure?"

"I need a reading, Nikki."

"Are you going to  _pay_  this time?"

"Nikki."

Nikki rolled her eyes, walking over to the counter, snatching her cards quickly. "Let's not waste any time then, Seth."

Seth nodded, walking briskly towards the back, waving absently at Brie, who was walking out from the kitchen area with a mug of tea. She waved back, the realization coming belatedly on who it was that had said hello.

"Aw, shit."

Once Seth had gotten inside the room, Nikki closed the door behind her, motioning for him to sit down. She watched with a keen eye at how his entire demeanor had changed, the way he had dressed had become more monochromatic, and his eyes seemed to have bags under them where they hadn't before.

"You look like shit."

"Gee, thanks Nik, nice to see you too."

"I'm just saying. You've never looked this down and out before. What the fuck  _happened_. I mean, like… you know? Nah, I'll just let the cards tell me. Since that's why you're here."

She moved towards the chair facing Seth, crossing her ankles as she opened the box that her cards were in. She hadn't quite known when she and Brie had started reading, but just one day they had found themselves with a standard Rider-Waite deck, and found that they were eerily good at it.

From there, they cycled through decks, finding ones that resonated them and some that didn't, giving them as gifts to the people they had come to consider friends and even family. Nikki remembered, offhandedly, that Brie had tried giving a deck to Dean, who had just held his hands up as if they'd burn him, remarking that " _nah, tried really hard to learn them, I'm god awful terrible with them, but if you ever find some nice runes, hit me up._ " That had sort of piqued her interest, but Seth had told her to not ask…

Right, she had to focus on this reading for Seth.

As she shuffled the deck, she watched how his hands twitched, how his nails looked more bitten down than usual. She watched how his eyes stayed cast down, his mouth having turned thin-lipped as he sat there, bouncing a knee. Something was wrong, and it was eating at her to see it.

Finally, when she had felt that the cards had been shuffled enough, she drew the first two cards.

The Hanged Man, crossed by Three of Swords.  _Sacrifice and betrayal and heartbreak_.

"Jesus fuck, Seth, what the hell did you do?"

She didn't really have to ask. She could tell in his mannerisms. He'd broken away from the other two. He'd acted as a go-between, a balancing of the scales, where Dean and Roman were hot and cold. She knew he was getting tired of being the mediator, of having to play the role of peacekeeper, but this seemed sort of drastic, at least how the cards presented it.

"I left Dean. And Roman." Nikki didn't miss the break in his sentence.

"I can see that. Looks like you went about it in a pretty shitty way though… which doesn't surprise me, to be quite honest with you."

Seth's nostrils flared, his eyes trained on her, looking almost like they were burning. She ignored it, choosing instead to continue with the reading.

The next four cards. Five of Wands.  _Conflict and competition_. The Tower.  _Unexpected upheaval, change_. Inverted Temperance.  _A lack of balance and healing_. Inverted Eight of Coins.  _Unfulfilled work, being caught up in your own talents_.

"Seth…"

"What, Nikki. What does it say?"

"Well… it's saying that you left because you felt like you had to compete for something. And in doing so, it allowed for some seriously unexpected changes in your life, and now you're feeling unwell and unbalanced about it, which, in your particular case, is  _not_  a good thing. And uhm. This is saying that in the future, you'll probably uh… end up having done all of this for nothing."

She points at the Eight of Coins card, showing a spider sitting in an elaborate web, tapping a red painted nail against the black and white image.

"See, like, the spider's good at his job, damn good at his job, but it can turn on him. He can get caught up in his own web."

"Spiders can't get caught up in their own webs or else they couldn't make them."

"It's a metaphor, you insipid fuck. You wanted my help, right?"

Seth nodded, holding his hands up as if he were surrendering. "I'm sorry, go on."

Nikki raised an eyebrow, pulling the next three cards. The Sun.  _Assurance_. Nine of Swords.  _Nightmares and anguish_. Seven of swords.  _Secrecy and self-interest_.

Well, didn't  _that_  sound interesting.

"Why didn't you pull the last one?"

"Because you're not ready to hear it yet, not until you get these next three cards branded into your fucking brain. This is saying that despite all of the inherently fucked up shit you did to get to wherever the fuck it is right now, you're trying to put up this front that you're proud of what you did, that you're happy. But, you're not, not really. You're feeling pretty fucked up over it. It's giving you nightmares, or, since lord knows what the hell sacrifice you had to fucking make to get those two out of your life, you're probably seeing it in real life, aren't you?"

Seth froze, thinking of how he had been having dreams of a darkened spot, darker than soot or rot, blooming on his heart. Or how the blond in his hair was starting to break off like it was dust, which was problematic in more ways than one. He cleared his throat, his façade having fallen even briefly.

"Yeah, and?"

"And this is saying that everyone sees you for the fucking scum that you are.  _Finally_."

"And what the fuck is  _that_  supposed to mean, Nicole."

"It means that, yeah, we give up on the things we love for our work, or we give up on our work for the things we love. It can't be both, not if we want to give them the full passion they deserve. You've obviously made your choices, and people are starting to see where your heart truly lies when it comes to what you want."

Seth chuckled, leaning back in his chair, that smug grin of his making his eyes glimmer in the way that made Nikki's stomach twist and want to make his mouth red from blood and lipstick.

"You sound let down, Nikki. Almost like you wished for an option that involved you."

"I'd rather die." Nikki hadn't been quite sure what her feelings were on the situation that had no beginning or end between them, an awkward air that neither dared to breathe until now, but when she spoke those words, it felt sealed.

"The lady doth protest too much. Tell me, Nikki. You wanna speak of passion? Of giving up on the things we want? Look around you Nikki. Tell me. Were you so afraid of jumping into life, truly, that you stayed behind here, reading cards for the ungrateful, who don't see how truly talented you are? Were you afraid, Nikki? Fearless Nikki, afraid of falling for me?"

She slammed her hand down on the table, the cards shifting slightly. She stood up, leaning over the table, glaring back at the man she had once considered a potential lover, but now was nothing more than a disintegrating shell of a man, who sold his soul and was gloating about it.

"I wasn't afraid of loving you, Seth. I'm just smart enough to know better. I can't say the same about others, those poor fucks who let their hearts be broken over and over again by you. Conversely, can you say the same thing about yourself? Are you smart enough to know when to give up? You keep burning down that white candle, huh. Bet there's nothing left to it. You keep trying, so fucking hard, to balance the scales of the wrongs you've done, try to remove the blame from yourself."

She places the last card down. A black cat and a white cat, standing on opposite sides of a sword.

Justice.

" _Ave Justicia_. Go pray to her, she's the only one who might be able to save your sorry ass."

Seth nearly flipped the table over in his frustration, storming out of the room, Nikki following close behind.

"Ain't no amount of praying gonna help that shadow on your soul, unless you mean it, Seth. You can't bullshit to God, and you should fucking  _know better_."

"Fuck you, Nikki."

"In another life, Seth. Not this one. And maybe not the next either."

He scoffed, forcing his way through the front door, the bells ringing above him as he left.

Nikki stood there, feeling as if something was ripped out of her and they were now cauterizing the wound. Brie quickly signaled for Eva to close up the shop, watching as Nikki walked towards the back, hugging herself.

Brie went into where Nikki had done the reading, but seeing the cards still lain out, decided against touching them. Nikki pulled them, Nikki would have to put them back, when the time was right, and when she was ready.

Every fool has their own journey.


	6. Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you listen closely, beyond the screams, beyond the gasps for breath and the cries of pain, you can almost hear the beating of wings. Banshees are real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this was a fun little thing to write. Inspired courtesy of "Control" by Halsey. The other wrestler mentioned in this isn't a WWE wrestler, but fit the aesthetic. His name is Tommy End, and you should learn about him because he's fantastic. I'm so glad to be in this universe again! Read, review, come pick my brain at Tumblr.

The trails of grey smoke from the various candles and censers of incense had started to float across her vision, as if she could actually watch them dance in front of her like the various spirits that seemed to find residence at the foot of her bed. It wasn't even  _her_  bed anymore, just a bed, in an empty home, one that had been condemned and yet was still under ownership of her family. It was a skill not even her mother, whose powers and skills had been whispered about the villages they'd traveled through, had known how to deal with. She did her best, watching outside the circles made of chalk formed of rock dust and eggshell as her tiny, raven-haired daughter would twitch, near seizing before her mouth would shoot open, jaw out of her control, and a raw shriek would rip its way out of a once-innocent soul, until she'd cough up blood once it was over.

It had been painful for Saraya to watch, to see Paige like this.

As the time passed, it hadn't been so much a taming but more so an  _understanding_  of how it happened, one that despite her best attempts at accepting it, Paige would still jump the moment she felt an empty yet heavy weight against her legs as she'd try to sleep. There's being a banshee, and then there's being a Keeper. That's the only term they could really find for it. It wasn't necromancy, not really, because she didn't raise them. She only announced their death, but never made any intention of raising them herself.

They just sort of…  _stuck_  to her. Small animals, young children, war-torn heroes, petty criminals, star-crossed lovers, the sick, the murdered… they all clung to her, tugging at her hair, sitting on her legs, whispering to her in the middle of the night with more and more names, more and more people for her to keen at all hours. It became too much for even Saraya and her small cabal - not a coven,  _never_  a coven, there was no hierarchy here, only companionship and egality - to handle, and so they had reached out. Everyone had seemed shaken by how the smiling and laughter of a young woman would grow silent, her thick Norwich accent cut short before an ear piercing shriek beyond her control would barrel its way out, making all of those near her run, to shun her, the freak, the weirdo, the harbinger of death.

She never asked for this. It was a curse that she wished she could undo, but who would she wish this upon? No one. It was a burden that despite its weight, she shouldered.

There was one person who wasn't afraid of it. Who found that this was all just life, who laughed at those fearful of someone who would remind them of the inevitability of the cycles of life. It had only been a few years that he had been involved with their circle, his brand of magic chaotic and freeform, while the others had been folkish, full of tradition and ritual. They believed in much, while he believed in very little, and yet they'd found a like-mindedness in the acknowledgement that Death came for all, and was to be respected.

He sat in a chair, facing the bed that Paige had been laying on, to make sure that the decrepit wood of the floors wouldn't injure her if she started to seize once more, tattooed arms resting against his legs as he leaned forward, watching as her body twitched from moment to moment. It'd be any moment now. They'd learned. This was how it'd always start. First would be the days of sleep paralysis, and then how her body would suddenly not allow her to sleep. And then, the twitching. The frantic eyes. The desperation in her voice as she was made only to make whining noises, before the screams. It'd sound like thousands of nails down chalkboards, like brakes squealing against wet pavement, before trailing off into a low gurgle, and a hiss. Like of a dying flame. And if you paid attention in the moments after, you could swear you heard the beating of wings.

He glanced over at his companion, another taller man, also bedecked in elaborate ink designs across his neck and down his torso and arms. His face seemed stern behind the long beard of his face, and their silent acknowledgement of each other was all that the first man needed. Rising from his seat, he moved towards Paige's right, kneeling down next to the bed, as the other moved from where he had been leaning against a wall, the heavy leather of his boots thumping against the wood.

"Tommy, grab her hand."

"Got it."

The bearded man, Tommy, reached out his left hand to grasp Paige's tightly, clasping it to an almost painful tightness, causing the woman, already in a somewhat fragile state to jump, before the man to her right stopped her.

"Hey. It's me. It's Baron. Tommy's got you. We got you."

Before Paige could nod in reply, Baron's right hand clasped hers, and with a quick nod, both men turned to face behind Paige, using their shoulders to brace against her body as it rocked forward, wincing as the first bloody screams tore their way through her, her anchors in a world turn thin and unnatural.

The weight on her legs grew heavy. Another soul stuck to her, using her as a perch. She'd never be rid of them. She could only call their presence, nameless, forgotten, except for her. She'd always have them.

She'd be buried with their weight.


End file.
